


bloodsport

by kitseybarbours



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Dracula, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Cannibalism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Semi-Epistolary, Somnophilia, Stockholm Syndrome, background Alana/Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: American solicitor Will Graham is summoned to a castle in the remote Lithuanian woods at the behest of a certain Count Lecter. Though the villagers speak his name in fear, Will finds himself intrigued by the charming, cultured count. He soon learns, however, that at Castle Lecter nothing is as it seems.





	bloodsport

**Author's Note:**

> When I say 'Dracula AU,' what I really mean is 'first 57 pages of Dracula AU.' I read _Jane Eyre_ right before writing this, so the style is an unholy fusion of Brontë and Stoker with about 60% more commas than my usual fare. Title from the [Raleigh Ritchie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MrnCnCmUrE8) song.

* * *

Ich sag’ die Angst wird gehen, wenn du erst richtig blutest.

_ [Blute — Franziska Brandmeier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pIEQrXzPx0) _

_ 3rd November, 18—. _

_ My dear Alana, _

_ I write to you from R—., a small town on the Polish border, where my coachman has halted for the night. Tomorrow, he says, our long journey will have ended, and we will reach the estate in the Lithuanian forests whence I am summoned, at the express request of a certain Count Lecter. _

_ I must admit I still think it curious that the Count ever occasioned to hear my name, much less to seek me out and employ my services as solicitor. How word of my modest work spread from our own Baltimore to remotest Eastern Europe remains a mystery to me; but I shall not question the Count too thoroughly, for risk of offending him and causing him to revoke his generous offers of lodging, board, _ and _ compensation for the length of my time in his employ. Your humble betrothed, Alana, will this fortnight sleep in a veritable castle! _

_ My journey to date, though long and arduous, has been as comfortable as one might expect, when traversing this comparably primitive part of the world. The peasant-farmers, though, are not so different from the homesteaders among whom I was raised; they have something of my own father’s aspect, the flinty eye of the woodsman, though of course their costume is somewhat different. (My father would not have worn such caps as they do; my mother, never flowers in her hair!) And the food is simple, hearty, good—I have tasted such delights as I simply must share with you; I have asked several times for recipes, and noted down their names in my journal, as well as I could transliterate. The people have been most helpful and kind. _

_ I do recall the fears you voiced, as I pressed you to my breast at the New York dock before taking ship to London: that I should find the population hostile; that I should not make myself understood, my grasp of all tongues east of German being weak as it is; that there should be nothing for me to eat, my palette too accustomed to our bland American fare; and, worst of all (and oh, I think now fondly of your bashful laugh as you voiced it, the way you ducked your cheek against my chest)—that I should encounter bears, or wolves, or supernatural creatures, more fierce and frightful than anything to be found in the Maryland woods! I am pleased to say, my darling, that ere now I have encountered none of these many perils, and thus endeavour to assuage your worries. I am well, though I am so far from you, and in so obscure a place. _

_ But now my candle burns dim; I have light enough only to say, _

_ As ever, I am yours, _

_ Will Graham. _

* * *

_ 4th November, 18—. _

_ Dearest Alana, _

_ Alas! Rain has halted our swift progress, and the coachman tells me we will not reach the castle until nightfall. Though all I said yesterday remains true, I admit I grow tired of the road; I look forward to sleeping in a room of my own again, no longer crowded alongside strangers aboard the coach or at a roadside inn; and, I confess, I am most curious to meet my host, and impatient now this meeting has been delayed. _

_ Regarding my host: a curious thing happened today, Alana. When we stopped at the inn from where I now write, the innkeep’s wife met us with dinner, and warm wine to stave off the chill. We supped at her table; she and my coachman maintained a hearty dialogue, from which I, with my poor Polish vocabulary, was somewhat excluded; but then, near the end of our meal, she nudged my driver and looked to me, and asked him something, intending he should translate. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked me, in the gruff voice heavy with his native accent, to which I have grown a little used by now. ‘She wants to know.’ _

_ I gave the good woman the name of the castle and its master, thinking they would not be known to her: I was under the impression we were yet a good many leagues away. But to my distinct surprise, her face grew pale and eyes grew wide at the sound of Castle Lecter’s name. I watched in shock as she made the sign of the cross—in the Orthodox fashion, of course—and rattled off a stream of discourse in an agitated tone, none of which I understood; but which made my coachman, as he listened, frown. _

_ ‘Her son,’ he explained to me. ‘He was a serving-boy at the castle some months back; and he died there, of some illness. The count would not return his body, for fear of the disease spreading. She is convinced he was not buried in the proper way.’ _

_ He shrugged, looking at the peasant-woman with some measure of distaste; but I was affected, to see that she had begun to weep, and sorry to have reminded her of such an unfortunate event. I asked my coachman to tell her as much; he conveyed my message, and soon enough she seemed consoled; but, Alana, I cannot shake the unpleasant feeling that descended over me, seeing her countenance drain of blood as it did, when I spoke Count Lecter’s name. _

_ A regrettable accident, I hear you saying, your calm sweet voice a balm to my fears—as ever. Yes, yes, my darling, you are almost certainly right: just as at home, these peasant-children sicken easily, and slip away like clouds in the night. He was far from home, and far from his doting mother, and I daresay it would it have been all the easier for the little lad to give up hope, and let himself waste away in a strange and foreign castle! _

_ Pray, my love, that such a fate will not befall me, once I pass the threshold of Castle Lecter. (I jest only—do not fret—I am, most certainly, hardier than a peasant-boy; and I have you, Alana, to hold in my mind, and to aim to return to and wed. What better reason to stay hale and living?) _

_ The rain is easing; I will find my coachman now, and inquire as to when we may be off. God willing, I will next write to you from the mysterious castle itself. _

_ Ever yours, _

_ Will. _

* * *

Late next eve, Will Graham’s journey at last was ended. He had fallen asleep sometime on the road; but woke when the coach came to a halt, and the coachman announced, ‘We have arrived.’

Will descended from the coach, and at once froze in awe, to catch sight of his surroundings. They had come to a stop in the midst of a bleak, black wood, utterly dark but for the weak light of the moon; and before them, rising like a craggy mountain, was Castle Lecter itself, a behemoth carved from dull gray rock. Somewhere—impossible to tell, whether nearby or far away—a pack of wolves set to howling; and the gauzy grey clouds moved swiftly overhead.

The horses did not like it here: they stamped their feet and whinnied, straining at their harness. Will shivered. The coachman lugged his suitcases down, and left them at Will’s feet. Quickly he hopped back up to take the reins, to Will’s dismay: ‘What, will you now leave me here?’

The coachman pointed. ‘Someone comes.’ 

And indeed, a figure emerged from the dark, swinging a weak-flamed lantern. 

The coachman coughed. ‘I will not stay. Good luck, my friend.’ He crossed himself swiftly, before cracking the reins and turning the coach round, trundling back into the night.

Will had hardly time to wonder why he had wished him luck, before the figure drew nearer, and stopped in front of him. It was a serving-boy, dressed all in black, his round face wrapped in a muffler to keep out the chill wind—for the temperature had dropped, and snowflakes began to swirl, high in the steel-grey sky. 

Silently the boy took up Will’s bags; he protested, ‘They are not heavy, I can manage myself;’ but the boy said nothing, and turned to lead him through the wood. He noticed that the boy’s hair was of a vivid Titian shade, in sharp contrast to the dark-haired peasants he had thus far in his travels encountered; the boy’s bright head blazed like a beacon, as Will followed him up to the castle.

At the door—of thick dark wood, heavily fortified; able to withstand, Will imagined, even barbarian attacks—the boy dropped Will’s bags and left him, melting back into the darkness. Will would have bid him wait, if he had but time to even notice he had left—so quickly was he gone. Now alone, Will faced the heavy door, and felt a thrill of trepidation. His journey was over; but what was next to come?

Will removed his right-hand glove and knocked, thrice, firmly. He waited but a moment, the cold wind whipping in his thick curls and setting his arms to goose-pimples; until footsteps came tapping, quick and precise, and a key was heard to turn arduously, in a venerable and ancient lock.

The heavy door swung open. Behind it stood a man of middle years, some measure older than Will, holding a finely wrought lantern. In its dancing light Will marked the man’s features: the hard, high planes of his cheekbones; the slight gauntness of his cheeks; the dark, slanting, nearly reptilian eyes, which gazed at Will with polite curiosity. The man’s tawny-brown hair fell sleek over his brow, glowing silvery in the lantern’s light. 

The man smiled, lofting his lantern higher to take in Will’s face. ‘Mr Graham,’ he said. His English, though fluent, carried the tones and accent of his homeland. ‘I am so glad you have come. Welcome to my home.’

‘Count Lecter?’ returned Will. 

‘Indeed.’ 

Will had not imagined the man himself would greet him; he had expected another servant; but, perhaps, in this part of the world, such things were done differently. The Count, for so the man was, reached to clasp Will’s bare hand. His skin was hot, very hot to the touch; or so Will thought; _ but perhaps it is only that mine is so cold. _They shook. 

‘Come in,’ the Count bade him; and he took up Will’s bags as though they weighed nothing.

Again Will protested: but the Count waved him off: ‘The servants are indisposed. Allow me to attend to you, Mr Graham.’ And he set off, bidding Will follow. ‘You must eat, and rest, for you have had a difficult journey. I am most eager to hear about it.’

He led Will to a bedroom, upstairs and deep within the castle; the air grew warmer with every step, and Will was grateful. A fire crackled in a deep stone hearth: Will went instantly to it, and warmed his hands, while the Count deposited his things at the foot of the bed. ‘Wash, and change, if you wish,’ urged the Count, ‘and dinner will be served in the other room, whenever you care to join me.’ He bowed, and departed.

Directly Will went to the ewer and basin, and washed the dust of travel from his face and hands; he shed his outer wrappings, and chose fresh warm clothes for supper, glad to be changed into clean garments. The room was warm, and soon his skin warmed too, losing all its erstwhile chill. The presence of the plump, redheaded pageboy had put to rest Will’s last, lingering sorrows about the innkeep’s wife and her dead child; surely the servants here were healthy. _ It is as Alana said, _ thought Will, heartening; _ that boy’s death was indeed a regrettable tragedy, unlikely to be repeated! _

Thus refreshed, Will entered the next room, and found an exquisite spread laid upon a long trestle table, from the head of which Count Lecter presided. He rose when Will entered, a courteous smile on his face, and said, ‘Sup as you like; there is plenty.’

‘Thank you,’ said Will, and fell eagerly upon a plate of roast fowl, the flesh tender and succulent in his mouth. His host ate more slowly—with more refinement—but Will felt no shame; he hungered, greatly; and indeed, the Count looked pleased, to see Will eat with such ardour. ‘A very fine meal,’ Will praised, once his first helping had vanished. ‘Send my regards to your cook.’

To Will’s surprise the Count inclined his head, and touched with long, beringed fingers his own breastbone. ‘They will not need be sent far. I prepare all my meals myself.’

‘You have no cook?’ asked Will, his mouth agape.

‘No cook.’

‘And no wife?’ Will thought of Alana: how he missed her; how soon, and yet how long, it would be, till he could call her by that most sacred and desired name, _ my wife. _

The Count shook his fine head. ‘Nor a wife. Cooking gives me great pleasure; and I most enjoy having guests for dinner.’ The Count smiled down at Will’s empty plate. ‘Do you care for wine? I have here a very pleasant Amarone.’

‘I have never tasted Amarone. Please, a glass.’

Count Lecter poured the wine, which shone garnet-red, and indicated that Will should drink. Will lifted the glass to his lips, eager for refreshment after his journey. The wine washed over his tongue, sharp and bitter, as its name suggested. At first taste he did not know what to make of it. ‘Is the wine a product of this region?’ inquired Will. ‘By its name, I would think it Italian.’

‘It comes from my own vineyard,’ replied the Count, sounding pleased. ‘You are correct; Rondinella grapes grow nowhere in this country, but for upon my own land. This bottle is a favourite of mine—of a special vintage, a true _ annus mirabilis _. A treat for my honoured guest.’

‘I am honoured indeed.’ Will drank deeply; and upon second essay, the singular taste of the wine seemed more appetising, though a slight strange undertone persisted. Will reasoned that his palette was indeed unaccustomed to such fine fare, as Alana had predicted; and estimated, that he would grow used to it in time.

Count Lecter smiled; and his pale eyes shone in the candlelight. ‘Now please, Mr Graham; eat more; I insist.’

* * *

_ 5th November, 18—. _

_ Dearest Alana, _

_ I am arrived at last; and the castle is more marvellous still, than I had prepared myself even to hope. I supped last night with the Count, and found him a goodly and charming man: a little older than myself and yet a bachelor; he maintains a private vineyard, and cooks his meals himself! And fine meals they are, too—served on golden plate!—last night, roast fowl in rich peppered gravy, perhaps quail or pheasant (I know not the local fauna), and a large bottle of Italian wine. And, this morning (I ought say _ evening, _ for I dozed all day) when I woke, there was hot coffee awaiting me, and a spread of sausages and hams, and hearty bread and sharp white cheese. Yes, Alana, fear not; I shall be well-fed in my absence; and perhaps require your services as seamstress, when at last I am returned to you! _

_ I have said I slept most of today, and indeed I did. The Count had left me a note at the table, telling me he would be away, occupied with business, for the better part of the day; so, left to my own devices, I wandered thro’ the castle. To my disappointment I found many a locked door, barring my way—like a child, I lingered hopefully, peeping into keyholes, to no avail. _

_ But the library was wide-open; and what a library indeed! I was not surprised to find a groaning shelf of cookery-books—even some filled with recipes written in what I must assume to be the Count’s own fine hand, though of course I could not read the language in which he wrote. And everywhere, Alana, were Italian books: novels, and magazines, and books of law and natural science, and catalogues for every auction-house in Florence (all, now, somewhat out of date). I gather that the Count bears a great affection for the country; and I understand now his wish to purchase the Villa Fiorella, and to set down roots in his so-admired land. _

_ I admit, Alana, that I remain unsure as to why he chose _ me _ to aid him in such a task; but I have taken such a liking to him, and his home, already, that I shall endeavour to carry out his every wish. _

_ I hear a noise in the hall—perhaps it is my host returned. I shall set down my pen for now, but I remain, _

_ Your Will. _

* * *

Within a moment of Will laying down his pen, the Count appeared in the library door; he wore a long cloak, and his cheeks were reddened; Will estimated he had come from out-of-doors. ‘Well met, my friend,’ the Count greeted him. ‘I hope you are rested today?’

‘Indeed,’ answered Will, setting his letter aside. ‘I slept long and deep; in fact, I have only this hour woken, and found the food you left for me.’

‘And you have found your way to the second-best room in my home; aside the kitchen, of course,’ said the Count confidentially. Removing his cloak, he took a seat in a chair by the fire, though did not reach to warm himself. ‘You read Italian, no?’

‘A little,’ confessed Will; ‘I am sorely lapsed since leaving university. My skills, of course, remain sufficient, to aid you in your business,’ he hastened to add. 

But the Count looked unconcerned. ‘Your capacities in that area matter not to me,’ he said. ‘My mother was a Visconti and a Sforza, and I learned the language at her knee. I have chosen you to be my helpmeet, for quite other reasons,’ he explained; ‘and in these departments, I have so far found you most ideal, my dear Mr Graham.’

‘What reasons, my lord Count—?’ began Will; but the Count only smiled.

‘Please, my friend—call me by my Christian name—Hannibal.’

‘Like the conqueror,’ said Will.

‘Indeed; and the founder of this very castle, Hannibal the Grim. My mother had great aspirations for me, when I was but a babe.’

‘I daresay you have fulfilled them,’ said Will, looking around him, at the beautifully appointed room. ‘What mother would not be proud, to see her son living thus?’

Hannibal bowed his head. ‘You are very kind, Mr Graham. I have always striven to make her proud; for she died when I was very young. Her memory is always with me.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Will sincerely. ‘Is your father still living? — No, excuse me, of course not; for you bear his title now.’

‘Indeed I do. He perished with my mother, at the hands of invading forces; as did my only sister. She was murdered before my very eyes, when I was a boy of but eleven years.’

‘What horror!’ exclaimed Will. ‘My dear Count Lecter—Hannibal—I am most grieved to hear of your loss.’

‘It happened ere many years. An aunt and uncle raised me, before they too passed in their time; but I was a grown man by then, and ready to assume my father’s mantle.’ Here he paused, however, and a wistful sadness struck his face. ‘My sister, though; my sweet Mischa; her, I have mourned and missed every day since she left me. But ah—!’ His aspect cleared, though Will thought perhaps he saw a glimmer in his eyes, like tears. ‘Now is not the time to speak of such sad things,’ decreed Hannibal. ‘This is not why you have come. Tell me, Mr Graham, of the estate you have found for me in Florence; tell me of the Villa Fiorella, which shall soon be my new home.’

And so Will retrieved his folio and case, and spread his papers on the long library table; and Hannibal drew his chair close, so they might together pore over the deeds and maps and sketches of the house, which Will had sought out for his client. 

After some time the Count stood, to reach across Will for a Kodak-print, and on returning to his seat, seemed to linger next Will’s cheek a moment. Will thought he heard an inhalation. _ But I must be mistaken, _ he reasoned; _ that would be foolish; what sort of man stops to _ smell _ his fellow, like a dog tracking a scent for the hunt? _

‘And are these the necessary papers?’ asked the Count, bringing Will back to himself.

‘Yes,’ said Will in haste. 

‘I will sign,’ said Hannibal. 

‘Already?’

‘Yes,’ said Hannibal, his full lips curling back in a smile. ‘The house is large, and old; well big enough for me, and any guests I may invite to stay. Your pen, please, Mr Graham—and then, do me the pleasure of supping again with me.’

* * *

_ 8th November, 18—. _

_ My darling, _

_ I am dismayed to say, that for the first time since I have been here, I did not sleep well last night. You are familiar with my nightmares; many a night have you stayed awake with me, cooling my brow with wet cloths and holding my hand as I cry out; and you will never know, Alana, how grateful I am for your patient kindness, in leading me through those dark hours. My nightmares had been kept at bay for the length of my journey so far, to my own distinct surprise; but I am disheartened to report that they returned last night; and, as you, beloved, were not here to take my hand and soothe me through them, they plagued me and kept sleep from me all night long. _

_ But of what did I dream, I hear you ask? I must say that your talk of vampyres, werewolves, &c. did not leave me so unfazed as I had thought. Perhaps I am less a stoic than I would believe; for my dreams last night were full of shrieking creatures, some furred, some fanged, which tore at my clothes and lunged for my throat. I woke shouting and sweating, certain I would have waked the castle; but by either a mercy or a curse, no-one came running; and I passed the night alone, slipping sometimes into haunted sleep, otherwise lying in the dark, too uneasy to move or to strike a match. How I wished for you, Alana!—to hear your sweet voice telling me all was well, to feel the cool touch of your hand on my fevered brow—and then to pull you close to me, and fall peaceful into sleep with my own love in my arms… _

_ I grow too melancholy now; and I must not cause you worry. I am tired, but well: the Count and I are becoming great friends—he insists I call him by his given name, Hannibal—singular, is it not?—and he is feeding me exceptionally well: I look forward to our meals, for the stimulating conversation as much as the varied and ever-toothsome menu. _

_ Indeed, I have only just woken, and can already smell the tantalising scents of breakfast: meat, and butter, and the strong dark coffee I find myself craving daily. I am afraid, my dear one, that I must leave you now and yield to their temptations—! _

_ Forgive me, and know that you have, _

_ All my love, _

_ Will. _

* * *

He had written before dressing, or washing, even, so much had his nightmares disturbed him; and, though it would be days yet, if not weeks, before Alana received his letter and could provide solace, Will felt better, merely for having put pen to paper and detailed his disturbing dreams. He now set about his morning ablutions, bleary-eyed and eager to eat. 

In such a state of hunger and sleeplessness, he found himself distracted whilst shaving his face, and nicked himself with the razor, just where the pulse beat in his neck. Red blood streamed freely from the cut; Will cursed to himself. He mopped it with gauze, stanching the flow as best he could, and, when satisfied, finished his toilet; then quit his room, to join Count Lecter for breakfast.

Hannibal rose when Will entered the room, and bowed a little, as was his custom. ‘Good morning, my friend.’

‘Good morning.’ Will nodded his greeting, and took his seat at the Count’s side, reaching at once to fill his plate. The direction in which he turned his head, however, seemed to split his earlier cut; and Will felt something warm and wet, dribbling down his neck. ‘Blast,’ he murmured.

Hannibal was out of his chair before Will could reach for his handkerchief. His palms pressed flat and strong against the tabletop: his eyes fixed, magnetic, on the small nick in Will’s skin, and the thin trail of blood which now seeped from it, seeming to throb with his pulse. His chest rose and fell shallowly: his thin nostrils flared.

‘Hannibal!’ ejaculated Will, taking in his friend’s changed aspect. ‘Whatever is the matter? Does the blood affect you so?’

‘Yes,’ answered the Count slowly; ‘I am afraid the sight, and the scent, make me...ill.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Will, hurrying to wipe the blood from his neck, lest the sight further disturb his host. ‘I have been careless, and cut myself while shaving. But look—the bleeding stops. I hope I have not put you off your food.’ And he folded the bloodied handkerchief, and made to return it to his breast-pocket; but Hannibal, who had not yet sat back down, reached out a hand, with cat-quick reflexes.

‘Give it me,’ he entreated, ‘and I will have it laundered directly.’

There was an intensity in his gaze, and in the set of his mouth, that compelled Will to hand him the dirtied kerchief. Before pocketing the handkerchief, Hannibal brought it, fleetingly, close to his face, as though to assess the extent of the staining. But Will could have sworn, that again his nostrils flared, and his eyes briefly closed, as though inhaling of the kerchief’s scent—that is, of Will’s own scent; the scent of his fresh blood.

But the strange moment passed: the handkerchief was expeditiously stowed, tucked out of sight in Hannibal’s pocket; and Will’s host asked him calmly, looking in his eyes now and not at his neck, ‘With what will you break your fast?’

Will answered, and was duly served; he took coffee when offered; and host and guest ate in silence, for some peaceable minutes. Will would have wondered, whether the strange episode had occurred at all, were it not for the continued sting of the shaving-nick on his neck, and the slight bulge in Hannibal’s breast, betraying the kerchief’s presence; but his attention was soon captured by the delightful spread before him, and he turned his faculties to his food.

When Hannibal offered to serve Will a round of seconds, a thought crossed Will’s mind anew. ‘I must ask,’ said Will, spearing blood-sausage on his fork, ‘why you employ so very few servants? The castle, after all, is so large; and though you cook for yourself, surely there are other duties to which you have not the time to attend.’

He asked, because he had come to realise that he had seen no servants at all about the castle, since the plump red-headed pageboy who had first met him at the gate; and this youth seemed to have all but vanished, in the succeeding days. Will had seen, as yet, no cooks, no maids, no footmen; and yet every evening his sheets were turned-down, and the clothes he left to be washed or pressed were taken away and tended to; and his fire was always lit, and the golden plate from which they dined was clean and sparkling at each meal.

Hannibal poured himself a steaming mug of coffee, and to it added some dark-coloured liqueur, procured from a vial in his pocket. ‘Medicinal,’ said the Count, in response to Will’s inquiring look; and he drank deeply, before answering. ‘I employ such a scanty staff,’ said he, ‘because I have had much ill luck with servants in the past. I have sourced them from the nearest village, but have sadly found that the conditions of the castle do not agree with them: many have sickened, and quickly died.’

‘The innkeep’s wife,’ interjected Will. ‘Her son, she said—such happened to him, quite recently.’

Solemnly Hannibal crossed himself, a look of regret upon his face. ‘Indeed; I remember him well.’ He sipped again from his mug, his tongue sweeping across his thin lips. ‘He had the makings of a fine young man. A veritable shame.’

‘Is it really so impossible to find hardier staff?’ Will pressed. ‘Surely, not all the village folk are so disposed to illness.’

‘All those whom I have employed to date, seem to be of that unfortunate predilection,’ replied Hannibal. ‘I worry, also, that there are rumours spread about me, and this castle, in the little villages. My family has not always been best-liked: there are many peasants, their former tenants, who hailed my parents’ deaths, and rued the day I took my father’s seat as lord. Fantastic stories, Will, the peasants have fabricated: they tell terrible tales, of this house and of my family’s name.’

At this confession, his countenance grew so mournful, that Will felt it would be impolite to enquire further. But the memory of the red-haired boy tugged still at his mind, and so he permitted himself one last question:

‘But these rumours, nor illness, have not yet driven _ all _your staff away. The young lad who showed me in, ere I arrived—where has he gone? I have not seen him,’ Will said. ‘He had bright orange hair: I thought I would mark him, if he were about.’

‘Krystupas,’ answered Hannibal, nodding, and glanced down to his plate. ‘He has gone away to visit his family—an ailing mother, I believe. I expect he will return ere long.’

‘You are a merciful employer, then,’ remarked Will; ‘lenient with your staff, should they require time for such excursions. I know of many an American factory foreman who would not be so accommodating, and would dismiss any who made such a request from his post, post-haste. I cannot imagine your trouble finding servants stems from any mark upon your reputation as a master.’

‘Thank you, Will,’ replied Hannibal courteously; and indeed, his glint of a smile seemed to indicate genuine pleasure at the compliment. ‘I do think of myself as an ethical man.’

* * *

_ 9th November, 18—. _

_ Alana, _

_ I have passed another sleepless, and utterly distressing, night. I write to you now in the earliest morning—dawn has not yet broken, and the dark is oppressive; I am glad of even my candle’s weak light; for all that I witnessed tonight, seemed born of darkness itself. _

_ I dined with the Count, as per our custom. We sometimes take a cigar or more wine in the library after supper; we enjoy each other’s conversation, and have often sat up until the wee hours; but tonight I restrained myself, and declined his invitation, determining to go to bed early, in an effort to make up for the hours of sleep I have lately missed. He bade me good-night with every courtesy, and I retired alone, eager for rest. _

_ I fell asleep quickly, and did not dream for some hours—but then I woke again, in the midnight blackness, and I was no longer alone. _

Here, Will’s pen abruptly stopped. In his acute distress, immediately following the events which he now tried to describe to his fiancée, he had wanted only to recount them on paper and so free his head of them; but as he reached their beginning, he found he could go no further. How to tell Alana, his clever, sweet, and _ good _beloved, of the most profane visions which he had this night experienced?

Will sank back in his chair and covered his face with both hands. He was nude, and shivered in the cold night air. Said visions unspooled again behind his eyes, unbidden: he had no choice, but to relive them.

He had been asleep; and decidedly alone; he had barred his door before retiring, as the Count had advised him, upon his first night, to do. Will did not remember waking—still, he was not certain whether he had ever regained consciousness, or had passed the whole night dead asleep—but he saw now, or knew somehow, that there was a figure in his room. 

Will had gone to cry out; to reach for the knife on his night-stand; to do anything which might deter this nocturnal intruder; and then the figure had moved forward, and its face had been struck with moonlight; and Will had recognised his host himself, Count Hannibal Lecter.

Will’s shout died in his throat. He froze, trembling, as the Count moved slowly toward him; and his dry mouth could not gasp, when the Count’s weight landed on the bed. 

Hannibal advanced, leaning closer to Will, who lay as though paralysed, or enchanted. The Count loomed over him, close enough that Will could feel the waft of his breath: it smelled sweet, of herbs and honey; but with a bitter undernote, like iron. Will trembled. With an agile tongue, Hannibal licked his lips.

In the moonlight, his lips were red, very red: and Will felt a shocking thrill run through him, as all at once he imagined the kiss of those lips—he felt a horrible desire, to feel them pressed to his own mouth, his neck, to other places—

As if hearing his thoughts, Hannibal bent closer still to Will, nuzzling along his jaw; his neck; he paused, at the very point where Will had cut himself with his razor; and there he pressed his nose, inhaling deeply. Will swore he heard a soft, longing moan, almost tender in its yearning; and then, with no warning, Hannibal lunged, and sank his sharp teeth into the flesh of Will’s neck.

Will cried out, now, his voice returned: but he felt no pain. He watched, horrified, breathing fast, as Hannibal sucked at him, his eyes closed in apparent rapture. Will saw blood streaming from the punctures, to flow down over the Count’s mouth, and stain the collar of Will’s nightshirt. And yet, he felt no pain, but rather a blissful sweetness. _ How else could such madness be, were I not dreaming? _

Hannibal fed eagerly from the wound in Will’s neck, until the pleasure—the wicked, unholy pleasure!—was so great that Will could but mewl and writhe, pleading with the Count to let him be, to cease. And at last the Count did draw back; and his lips shone red with blood; and Will felt a fierce desire, which stole the breath from his lungs. 

‘Please,’ he heard himself murmur, as though from underwater. ‘Oh—please.’

And Hannibal—or the spectre who wore his face—smiled; and Will’s blood glistened still. Hannibal bent close to him, and kissed his lips. Will’s moan pierced the air, as broken glass.

Hannibal kissed him once more: deep, savouring: and with his sharp teeth drew blood from Will’s lip. Will, startling like an animal, bit back: he felt warm flesh yield, and tasted salt, as the Count’s blood filled his mouth, mingling with his own. Hannibal growled low against him, and fisted his hands in Will’s curls; and with that sharp tug of pain, and their blood mixing in his mouth, Will reached a violent climax.

When his spasms ceased, and he opened his eyes, Will was alone again, his nightshirt sodden. Hannibal had vanished, leaving no trace behind, but the scent of salt and honey on the air. With a trembling hand Will reached to touch his neck: his mouth: both were dry; no blood had spilt.

Will lay immobile, his heart thundering, until at last he gathered the strength to light a candle. He fumbled for pen and paper, needing to recount what he had seen, and felt, so as to prove to his later self, that he had not been dreaming. But as he ran his tongue back-and-forth over his lips, feeling them whole and tasting no blood, he became more and more convinced, that indeed it had been but a dream—a vulgar dream, a shameful dream; but only a dream, nonetheless. 

At once Will recalled the mess between his legs; and in disgust, stripped his nightshirt off, and threw it into the corner. In the morning, in the light, he would dispose of it, this proof of his abasement.

Thus came he to sit, naked and shivering, clasping his pen and staring at the scrawls on the page, until at last he understood, that of this night’s events Alana—nor any living soul—could ever be apprised. Will held the half-finished letter to the candle-flame, and watched it slowly burn.

* * *

A few more days—and, mercifully, nights—passed for Will with no incident. The Count was often absent during the day, at work on such business as Will knew little about, but which he assumed pertained to his upcoming move to Florence. Will himself was busy too, writing letters, arranging the transfer of funds, &c.—everything to facilitate the Count’s smooth transition, to his new Italian life.

Still they took their meals together, thrice a day, and spoke of things beside their mutual project. Contrary to his custom, Will spoke little of Alana. He thought of her often, but since the night of his dream these thoughts were tinged with guilt: indeed, since that night he found himself less and less inclined to reach for a pen and write to her, suddenly unsure what he might say. Culpably he told himself that she would not notice, for in any event his letters would take so long to traverse the continent and the ocean between them; it was possible, he thought, that he could pass the remainder of his stay at Castle Lecter without penning her another missive, and Alana would never be the wiser. And so he stopped writing, altogether.

Instead Will listened eagerly as Hannibal spoke of his childhood in the castle, stories which seemed to Will plucked directly from some story-book, so remote were they from his own humble upbringing in the farms and fields of north-east America. His sister Mischa featured prominently in these tales—they had fed the black swans in the castle moat together, Hannibal crumbling stale bread and placing it in his sister’s chubby hand, so she might throw it to the birds. When a little older, Mischa had insisted she sit in on Hannibal’s advanced mathematics lessons, and had thrown a charming fit when she realised she did not understand the principles of Euclidean geometry, as her brother, six years the elder, prodigiously did. Hannibal’s face took on a tragic aspect each time he spoke his sister’s name, pronouncing it with abiding fondness and grief. 

‘She was a clever, lively, and beautiful child,’ Hannibal told him, ‘and one day would have been a just and well-loved lady.’ His face darkened. ‘Those monstrous men who killed her, robbed this land of a bright future.’

‘Who were they?’ asked Will. He listened raptly, his plate empty, his stomach full, and his coffee cooling, as he rested his elbows on the table and let Hannibal’s voice wash over him.

‘Such have I endeavoured my whole adult life to discover,’ said Hannibal. ‘I have not yet discerned their current whereabouts—but I have it on good authority, that they both remain alive, and resident in this country.’ His face changed. ‘One day, I shall find them; and I will remind them what they did.’

A draught blew through the room; Will shivered. ‘Finished?’ Hannibal asked him, and stood to begin clearing the table—another singular habit of his, which Will found peculiar and charming.

‘Yes, thank you. Luncheon was excellent.’

Hannibal smiled, and turned for the kitchen; and at that moment a sharp knock was heard, echoing through the house from the front door. ‘Alas,’ said Hannibal, frowning, his hands quite full. ‘Will, would you—?’

‘Certainly,’ said Will, and sprang from his seat. He found his way to the front door—registering, in the back of his mind, that he had not once left the castle since his arrival, ere a sennight now; and, too, that he did not mind. The knock continued, loud and insistent, until Will slid back the door’s many bolts, and hefted open the heavy slab of wood.

Upon the door-step stood a ragged beggar, his hair matted, his hands and face unwashed. A smell rose from him, like fields at planting-time: dirt, and dung, and rotting grass. Will’s nose wrinkled. 

When he saw him, the vagrant stared openly at Will, his gape revealing a mouth full of broken and browning teeth. He began to mutter to himself, crossing himself again and again, refusing to look Will in the face.

‘What is it? What do you want?’ asked Will, patting his pockets for his purse. He knew not what was his host’s custom, whether he gave alms to such folk as this, or sent them away without a word. It mattered not: Will’s purse was empty. He held it out to the man, showing him as much—‘I have nothing for you; look.’

To his surprise, the man batted it away with a hiss, and then crossed himself rapidly again. He repeated the words he had said before, louder now and impatient; to Will’s untrained ear, the word sounded like, _zhmogeydra. _It meant nothing to him. The strange man said something else; and this time, and Will thought he heard, ‘Lecter.’ He seized upon it.

‘Do you wish to see the Count?’ he asked, and failed again to make himself understood: the beggar’s eyes flashed, and Will began to fear angering him. ‘I am sorry; I cannot—’

‘Excuse me, Will,’ came a calm voice from behind him. ‘Perhaps I may be of help.’

Relieved, Will stepped aside, and let Hannibal see the visitor. He did not seem alarmed or frightened; but the beggar’s reaction was quite opposite. His lips curled back to show his teeth, and he spat more harsh words at Hannibal: Will did not understand them, but their vehemence was clear enough.

Unfazed, Hannibal replied in the same guttural tongue. The beggar-man snarled at him, and made to lunge—not at him, but at Will; he spat, hitting Will’s cheek; Will had barely time to react, before Hannibal had seized his collar and pulled him inside, slamming the heavy door in the stranger’s face. Will heard him still, raving from the stoop, pelting words like rocks against the closed castle door. He heard the peculiar word again: ‘_Zhmogeydra! Zhmogeydra! Zhmogeydra!’ _

Will found his heart was racing, and a sheen of sweat had formed on his brow. He had no idea what the man had wanted, or of what he spoke—or what Hannibal had said to him, to make him seethe and grimace so—but the encounter had left him profoundly unsettled.

Hannibal turned Will round to face him. ‘You are not hurt?’ he asked, cupping Will’s face between his hands, so as to examine him for scratches. With his thumb he wiped the gob of spit from Will’s right cheekbone, a look of disgust on his aristocratic face. ‘I would not have had that happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.’

‘I am unhurt,’ Will assented. ‘He did not touch me, beyond that.’ Hannibal’s hands were very warm on his face: so warm, that Will could not tell whether he blushed beneath his touch. ‘Who was he? What did he want?’

Hannibal dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Merely a peasant, who has heard unsavoury rumours. He came, I suppose, to determine their truth.’

‘What rumours are these?’

‘Upon your arrival,’ said Hannibal, ‘it was whispered in the village that you would not survive the week, once you had passed my threshold. It is just now eight days that you have been my guest; and, my friend, I daresay you remain very much alive.’

‘Not survive the week,’ Will repeated. A chill ran down his spine, to think that all these peasant strangers had been whispering of his doom—counting on it, numbering his days. ‘But—Hannibal, whyever not?’

Hannibal shrugged eloquently. ‘These simple folk have simple minds. I cannot account for the birth of their stories.’

As if to punctuate his statement, the beggar shouted from the stoop. Hannibal looked out the window, his high brow creasing with distaste. ‘A moment, Will,’ he said. ‘I will dispatch him. Go—wash your face; I am afraid he has soiled it.’

Will did as he was told. Before his looking-glass, he raised a hand to touch his face—feeling not the unpleasant dried patch, where the beggar-man had spat; but rather, the warmth that seemed to linger, where Hannibal’s thumb had swept him clean.

* * *

Will returned to the library after he had washed his face. Hannibal put his head round the door, to apologise, and tell him he must need begin preparations for dinner; for his butcher had just been by, and he wished to start cooking while the meat was very fresh. Will bade him go, curious and eager, to discover what new delights the evening’s table would have in store.

Left alone, Will found he had little appetite to continue with his earlier work. The encounter with the beggar nagged at his mind: the man’s countenance had been so grim, so full of fear when he saw Will, changing to utter fury when Hannibal appeared. Hannibal had mentioned the stories told in the village; but did the peasants truly resent their lord so much? And if so, why look affrighted, to see the face of a mere visitor?

_ Zhmogeydra. _ The foreign word echoed in Will’s head. On an impulse, he turned to Hannibal’s reference-books, and bent to scan the shelves until he found what he sought: a dictionary, with entries in Lithuanian and English. Transliterating the strange word in his head, Will turned to _ Z, _and began his search.

It did not take him long to find a likely-looking word. There, in the middle of the page, glaring up at him, was the word _ žmog__ė__dra, _ and its English translation.

_ Man-eater. _The peasant had called Hannibal ‘man-eater,’ again and again.

Will was obliged to let the dictionary fall heavily down to the table, for his hands had set to trembling. His mouth was dry; he cast about for the carafe of wine and the glass, from which he had been sipping before the earlier disturbance; he raised it to his lips, and as the red liquid crossed his tongue, at last he became conscious of the curious taste he had marked, in each glass of wine Hannibal served him.

The undertone of the wine was sharp and metallic; organic, and almost foetid. Will had thought it came from the soil in which the grapes were grown—Hannibal had said himself, they were not native to this land—or else it was some lingering flavour, from their casks; but now he felt the veil had been pulled from his eyes. The peasant had called his host a cannibal, and his wine tasted of blood.

* * *

‘What do we dine upon tonight?’

‘Liver, accompanied by fava-beans; and Chianti, direct from Firenze.’

This was a wine Will knew. When Hannibal poured for him, Will caught again the steely scent he had detected, rising from other wines at his table; and this time he was certain of its origin. Will took a cautious sip, holding in his mind his hypothesis—and as he swallowed, he became entirely convinced of its veracity. _ Nothing else tastes like that. _

Hannibal served him, heaping his plate high, though the sight—the mere thought—of food, after what he had discovered, made Will’s stomach roil. 

‘Not hungry tonight?’ Hannibal asked, sounding disappointed. ‘The food is delicious, I assure you.’ And his gaze fixed on Will in such a way, that Will was compelled to slice a piece of meat, put it to his lips, and swallow, trying not to taste it, and not to let his face betray him. Hannibal gave a lingering, satisfied smile. 

Mechanically Will ate, willing his body not to reject the unspeakable victuals he offered it. He could hardly breathe; he could not relax: not until he had asked the question, which he knew now he ought have asked some days ere now.

‘This is a curious vintage,’ said Will, after several moments of nauseous silence. He swirled his wine-glass in his hand, letting the ruby liquid catch the light.

‘Do you find?’ Hannibal raised his silvery brows. ‘It is a particular favourite of mine.’

‘I do not dislike it,’ Will assured him, steeling himself before speaking his next words. ‘I find only that it has an aftertaste, which I did not expect.’

‘And what taste would that be?’ Hannibal laid down his fork and knife, regarding Will innocently.

Will swallowed. ‘Blood,’ he said. ‘I find it tastes of blood.’

Will had somehow known, that Hannibal would react as he did: he did not shout, nor curse at Will, nor threaten to throw him out for insulting his hospitality. Instead, he gave a slow, calm smile, and inclined his head to Will.

‘Your palette is very refined,’ Hannibal told him. ‘Most of my guests do not notice.’

‘It is not only this wine,’ replied Will, emboldened. ‘It is all of them. Each wine you have served me, has tasted this way. At first I thought I was tired, and imagining it; and then, perhaps, that the bottle had gone off; but we have had fresh bottles each night, and the taste persists. I am compelled to conclude that there is a reason—that there is blood, real blood, in all of your wine.’

Hannibal smiled, and did not deny it.

‘The liqueur, which you take in your coffee,’ stated Will. ‘Blood also?’ His heart beat, fast. 

‘Yes,’ said Hannibal. 

Now came Will’s true question: the most vital: the most frightening. He could not go on here, without knowing its answer. ‘Human blood?’ asked Will.

Hannibal nodded. He smiled still. He looked at Will, very steady, awaiting his reaction.

‘What happened to the beggar?’ asked Will bluntly. He was almost certain now, that he knew the answer; but he needed to hear Hannibal say it, before he could accept it as the truth.

Very slowly, Hannibal looked down to his plate, and then back up at Will. One brow rose: a question, which demanded an answer.

Will locked his gaze upon Hannibal’s. For a long, quivering moment, they stared, and did not speak. And then—at last—Will picked up his fork and knife, cut into the meat on his plate, and, without taking his eyes from his host’s, took a bite of the liver. 

Hannibal’s smile widened; and widened further still; and his cool eyes were wide, and dark, and hungry.

* * *

That night the Count came to him again; and this time Will knew he was not dreaming, for he had never gone to sleep. 

When the door creaked open Hannibal found Will upright in bed, his lit candle in one hand, and his knife in the other. Their eyes met when Hannibal entered the room; neither man said a word, for a long, elastic moment.

Then — ‘Ah,’ said Hannibal pleasantly, shutting the door behind him; leaving the two of them alone, in candlelight. ‘You were expecting me.’

‘You came before,’ said Will, his voice steady but his heart racing in his chest. ‘Not two nights ago, you came. I thought I had been dreaming.’

‘Was it a pleasant dream?’ Hannibal sat lightly on the edge of Will’s bed, as though he had been invited.

‘It showed me,’ said Will, low, ‘what you are.’ The flame of his candle quivered, as his hand began to shake. 

Hannibal moved closer. ‘And what am I, Will? What did this dream reveal to you?’

Will swallowed, and set down his candle on the night-stand, lest he drop it and set the bedcovers alight. Hannibal’s face was close to his; so close that he could smell his breath; the same scent from his vision: blood and honey, honey and blood. Hannibal’s eyes roved over Will’s face, calm and searching, the pupils wide in the darkness. Will knew that he was smelling him, drinking him in; perhaps scenting the blood that coursed hot beneath his skin; and, with a tremor, realised he was aroused. 

‘Monster,’ whispered Will, his dry mouth only inches from Hannibal’s lips. ‘You are a monster, and a fiend.’

Hannibal closed his eyes, his smile wicked and blissful; and his kiss, when it met Will’s lips, was searing. Will gasped, and sank into the kiss with a desperate hunger. Hannibal bit at Will’s bottom lip, reopening the wound he had previously created; and Will could only moan, as the Count licked the fresh-flowing blood from his skin. 

Tasting it, drinking it, Hannibal gave a low hum of pleasure. His hands, stronger and defter than Will could have imagined, began to untie the fastenings of Will’s nightshirt, opening it to bare his chest. He pressed kisses down Will’s neck and clavicle, down to his nipples, which he rolled delicately between his teeth until they hardened, and Will gasped. Hannibal opened his mouth, and fitted it over the place where Will’s heart beat; and he sank his teeth in, imprinting the shape of his mouth in Will’s skin.

Will moaned. He lay helpless as Hannibal pushed him back, and began to divest him of his clothes completely. In the moonlight the count’s eyes had a fierce, unnatural glimmer. When finally Will was fully bared, he was trembling, made weak by the Count’s hot touch on his skin.

Hannibal knelt between Will’s legs. He picked up one leg and examined it, running his nose along the sensitive, delicate skin of Will’s thigh. He found a likely place, and bit gently at it, sucking there a tender bruise. A shaking sound escaped Will.

He did the same to the other thigh, giving Will matching bruises that stung and swelled; and then he took Will’s cock in his warm, red mouth, and began to suck in earnest. Will cried out, arching bodily, his hands fisting in the fine sheets; never had he felt anything like this; never had he imagined. So deep was he in Hannibal’s mouth that he could feel his lips, brushing the tender skin at the base of his cock; and now his nose, burrowing deep into the wiry hair, chasing the deepest scent of him.

When finally Hannibal slid back and sat up again, Will had been reduced to pants and mewls, his chest heaving too quickly. ‘More, more,’ he cried out, agonised by the loss of sensation; ‘more, Hannibal, I beg you, _ more.’ _

Hannibal bent and kissed his neck, nipping sharp and brief. ‘I would have you,’ he murmured. 

‘Take me, then,’ Will begged, his head thrown back. ‘Take me as you will.’

From somewhere Hannibal produced an ointment, which felt slick and cool upon his finger, when he inserted it slowly inside of Will. Will gasped and wriggled around the intrusion: so very strange!—and yet delicious; leaving him wanting still more. ‘Another,’ he panted. 

Hannibal obliged; and his thin fingers did not feel so slender as they had, as they stretched Will wide in his most intimate place, where none had ventured ere now. Slowly Hannibal worked him open, till Will quivered and trembled upon him; and then Hannibal asked, ‘Want you still more, insatiable boy?’

‘Yes,’ said Will, his voice threadbare.

‘Good,’ said the Count; ‘for I would have all of you.’

And he slicked himself again, this time between his legs; and as Will watched with bated breath, entered inside him. ‘Oh,’ cried Will, as Hannibal sank himself to the hilt, his dark eyes closed in concentration. _‘Hannibal.’_

The sensation was overwhelming; and still Will found himself unsatisfied, his lusts extending far beyond their natural bounds. He wrapped his abused thighs round Hannibal’s slim hips to pull him closer, and let out a loose, tumbling moan as the motion grazed some sweet place inside him, as yet undiscovered. 

‘Is that good? Do you like that, then?’ murmured Hannibal, beginning slowly to thrust. ‘How pretty you are like this, sweet Will, all boneless and begging for me. I had hoped you would prove receptive; but never did I imagine this. Submission becomes you.’ He snapped his hips, and Will shouted.

‘You mean you wanted this,’ whispered Will when again he could breathe, forming words with difficulty as Hannibal began to fuck him earnestly; ‘you mean, you have had these designs, all the while I have been here?’

‘Even before,’ said Hannibal serenely. ‘I was so pleased when you responded to my attentions, that night in your own room; I found you even more biddable, than I had dreamt. And now’—he dug his nails into Will’s hip; drew blood; and put the fingers to his lips—‘here you are, as I have wanted you all along.’

‘Beast,’ gasped Will, ‘unnatural creature—’ And he cried out in ecstasy, as Hannibal thrust deeper, and bent over him to bury his teeth in Will’s neck and drink of his blood again.

Thus did Will reach his pleasure: with Hannibal’s teeth and cock inside him, and his blood and spend flowing freely, as his body spasmed upon the bed. He felt Hannibal climax, too, inside him; and he did not cease to suck at him until Will begged him to stop, feeling dizzy and light in the head. ‘No more,’ he whispered; ‘no more, Hannibal, not yet.’

Hannibal obeyed. Leaving Will upon his back, utterly powerless to move, he went away a moment, and returned swiftly with a dampened cloth. Will cleaned himself, catching blood and spend upon the towel; and when he finished, gave it back to Hannibal, who pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply. ‘Thank you,’ murmured the Count. 

‘Will you keep that, then?’

‘Yes; as I have kept the kerchief, with which you first mopped your blood.’

‘Demon,’ murmured Will, absent of malice.

‘No, Will,’ said Hannibal, laying the cloth aside and lying next to him, pressing skin to skin. He ran hot still; the air was cold; Will gladly wrapped himself in his embrace. ‘You will find that I am but a man, with unusual tastes.’

‘And am I to your taste?

Hannibal swiped his tongue along Will’s neck, tasting his sweat. ‘Yes; very much.’

Will closed his eyes. He knew now that this man could kill him; that, perhaps, he even wanted to; and yet rarely had he felt safer. He had protected him, after all, when the beggar had come to call.

‘What did you tell the peasant,’ murmured Will, ‘to send him away?’

Hannibal hummed low against his skin. ‘I told him you were past his help; for now you belonged to me.’

Will shuddered bodily. He turned to Hannibal, blind, seeking, and pressed his lips to Hannibal’s mouth: it tasted still of Will’s own blood. They kissed with a fierce hunger; and when they broke apart, Hannibal asked him, ‘Was I right to say so?’

_ ‘Yes,’ _said Will. ‘Oh—yes. I am yours, entirely; my body, and my soul.’

‘Good,’ murmured Hannibal, and kissed him bloody again.

* * *

Will awoke alone next morn, with sun streaming through the leaded window. All over he ached: as he sat up, he winced and groaned: and yet, when he put his fingers to the stinging wound in his neck, he felt the marks of his lover’s teeth, and shivered with a sinful thrill.

Dressed again in the nightshirt torn so ardently from him the night before, Will found Hannibal in the dining-room, presiding over a steaming spread of breakfast-fare. Knowing full well the provenance of such victuals, Will’s stomach rumbled greedily; and he took his seat next to Hannibal without reservation. 

The Count laid down the letter he read and placed his hand on Will’s. ‘Good morning, dear Will. You rested well? I did not wish to wake you, so deeply did you sleep.’

‘Very well,’ answered Will, serving himself of meats and breads. He saw the gleam of pleasure when he began heartily to eat, and was glad. ‘You seem in high spirits this morning, my lord Count,’ said he; for Hannibal had again picked up his letter, and his bright eyes skimmed eagerly over its lines. ‘What correspondent brings you such happy tidings?’

‘Dinner-guests,’ said Hannibal, looking up with a smile. ‘And very singular ones, indeed.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Two men, by the names of Vladis Grutas and Petras Kolnas.’

‘August personages of this country? Some lords, some scholars?’

‘Oh, no, Will,’ said Hannibal. ‘Far better. These are the men who killed my Mischa.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Will. ‘You have found them?’

‘At last,’ said Hannibal, fairly radiating satisfaction. ‘And not only have I found them, but invited them to dine with us, here. I used a false name in my letter so as not to rouse suspicion. They left me for dead as a boy; I expect they assume that someone else has taken over this castle, with no knowledge of the deeds they once committed here, nor the blood they spilt.’ At that word his tongue swept his lips. 

‘With _ us,’ _said Will, marking his choice of words. ‘You would have me present? When do they come?’

‘This Sunday eve,’ said Hannibal; ‘and yes, Will, I would; in fact, I must beg a favour of you.’ He clasped Will’s hand, and stroked it.

‘What favour, this?’

Here Hannibal bent close to Will, so he might murmur in his ear. ‘Help me avenge her, Will. Help me show these creatures, that I have not forgotten what they did, and what they took from me.’ 

‘Avenge her,’ Will breathed. ‘What—kill them, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ Hannibal nipped at Will’s ear, making him shiver. ‘What say you, my Will?’

Will closed his eyes. Hannibal placed slow, silent kisses upon his neck and jaw, waiting patiently for the reply, which they both knew would come.

‘Yes,’ murmured Will. ‘Yes, I will help you. I am yours to command.’

* * *

Every night until Sunday, Will spent in Hannibal’s bed, and there reached such heights of carnal pleasure as he had not known existed. He would fain have stayed there all the days long, as well; but here Hannibal’s proclivities became inconvenient; for without a staff, all preparations for the arrival of Mischa’s killers fell to Hannibal to effect, and with scant coaxing he enlisted Will to help.

There was not only the matter of the meal they would serve them, nor the wine, enriched as ever with fresh blood: this time, belonging to an unlucky pedlar, who chanced upon the castle in hope of selling his wares. To be thought about also was the evening’s finale; the climax, as Will had come to think of it; the murders themselves, and how they would be wrought.

He asked Hannibal, what they ought to do; and he answered simply, ‘What they did to Mischa, we will repay in kind. Do you know, my Will, how to use a knife?’

At last the fateful evening came. Sometime after the appointed hour—the men were late, and Hannibal displeased—there was a knock, at the heavy front door; and Hannibal rose, and went to greet them, Will following behind.

‘My friends,’ Will heard Hannibal greet them, his voice unctuous and smooth. ‘It is so good of you to come. Please—be welcome.’

‘Thank you,’ grunted one of them, stepping over the threshold. Will saw his eyes were striking blue. His companion followed; and, when he raised his hand to shut the door, Will took note of thin webbed skin between his fingers.

‘My friend, the American solicitor Will Graham,’ Hannibal introduced him: for both men were looking curiously at him, from under furrowed brows. ‘Will; here is Mr Kolnas; and Mr Grutas.’

The men nodded their greetings. Hannibal, Will noticed, did not give his own name.

‘I hope you have come hungry,’ Hannibal said with a smile; and led their guests to the dining-room.

They had. Hannibal served the first course with little ado, stopping only to fill the men’s glasses generously with wine—adulterated, Will knew, in the usual fashion. Grutas and Kolnas fell hungrily on the plates Hannibal placed before them, practically slavering, with widened eyes: Will imagined that he himself had worn a similar countenance, when he first dined at the count’s table. Will ate eagerly, too, though his stomach prickled with anticipation; but Hannibal took only sparing bites. Once or twice, he caught Will’s eye, as their next victims dined upon their previous; and Hannibal smiled.

Few words were exchanged during the meal, its primary accompaniment being the hungry grunts and crude chewing of the two men, and the savage scraping of their cutlery upon Hannibal’s fine plates. Will felt a cold-blooded thrill to see how ravenously they devoured another of their kind. 

But Hannibal asked them questions, here and there—how was their journey, how did their business fare (for on such a flimsy pretext had he drawn them here, by hinting that he might be inclined to invest heavily in their dealings; and such was these men’s greed that they had come, without reservation). And gradually, Will saw, they lapsed into complacency; and then he knew they were trapped. _ Our prey. _

Finally the men had eaten their fill—stopping just short of licking their plates, like the dogs Will knew they were. Cutlery was laid down, mouths wiped clean with soft cloth napkins, long breaths exhaled. They leant back, sated, in their chairs; Kolnas laced his webbed hands over his swollen belly, and belched with satisfaction.

‘Thank you,’ said Grutas, having more manners than his companion: Will had seen Hannibal’s wince. ‘We have not dined on such fare, in I do not know how long.’

‘Perhaps never,’ grunted Kolnas. ‘Good meat. Have not eaten such for many years.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Hannibal lightly. The men looked at him in confusion; and Hannibal only smiled. A placid silence fell.

And in the silence, Hannibal began to hum; very softly at first, a simple tune, which Will did not recognise. The other men seemed to, however: Kolnas’ head, which had been dipping drowsily toward his chest, now jerked upright, and Grutas’ webbed hands flew apart, to grip the arms of his chair. Their eyes went wide, and fixed on Hannibal.

‘That song,’ said Grutas hoarsely.

‘This one?‘ said Hannibal, all innocence. ‘A German folk-song, from my youth. It lodges itself in my head, sometimes. Perhaps you know it—I will sing the words. _ Ein Männlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm,’ _he began, his voice soft and lilting. _ ‘Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mäntlein um.’ _

‘It can’t be,’ said Grutas, his gruff voice low. _ ‘You.’ _

‘Oh, yes,’ said Hannibal pleasantly. ‘Welcome back to Castle Lecter. I am the old lord’s son. Perhaps you remember: when I was a boy, you killed my sister, cooked her, and fed her to me piece by piece.’

‘We left you for dead,’ growled Kolnas—though the look in his eyes betrayed his fear. ‘You should not have lived.’

‘Oh, but I did.’ Hannibal leaned forward. ‘It is you, Kolnas, the two of you, who should have died that day; God in all his vengefulness should have struck you down, for what you did; to Mischa and to me. Instead, He let me live; for he knew that my life’s work would remain unfinished, as long as my sister’s killers walked this Earth.’ His voice had grown low, and dangerous; Will shivered, not with fright, but with excitement.

‘Do you know what I wished to do to you?’ Hannibal continued. The two men—though both, by now, pale in the face, and sweating—could not take their eyes from him. ‘I thought to hunt you, and capture you, and keep you in cages, like animals; the animals you are. But I would never treat an animal the way I planned to treat the two of you.’ He licked his lips. ‘Now, though, I have grown; and my plans for you have changed. Tonight my magnum opus will be finished at last.’

He looked to Will, with a glimmering determination. ‘We will begin now, I think,’ he said softly; and he drew the knife from his breast pocket, where it had slumbered ere now.

The men had barely time to cry out at the sight of the blade, before Will—at a nod from Hannibal—had leapt into movement, and pinned Grutas’ arms behind his back. He bound them to the slats of the chair, with a length of rope secreted in his dinner-jacket for this very purpose. He and Hannibal had practiced, and Will knew the knot was sturdy.

Kolnas sprang to his feet, and, disloyal, tried to run; but the heavy food and wine had made him sluggish, and he stumbled. He scrambled to his feet again, panting, sweat pouring down his face and into his piggish blue eyes. He was disoriented: it was nothing for Hannibal to move, with a panther’s swiftness, and grasp him in a headlock, squeezing a pitiful cry from Kolnas’ throat.

‘Please,’ the man wheezed. ‘I have repented for what I did to her—to the little girl. The Lord has forgiven me my crimes.’ His breath rasped as Hannibal tightened his grip. _ ‘Please!’ _

‘Her name,’ Hannibal whispered in his ear. ‘What was her name? Tell me her name, and I will know you feel remorse for what you did.’

Kolnas’ face froze in terror. ‘I…I….’ he sputtered.

Hannibal smiled, as though he had known; and he plunged his knife into Kolnas’ back.

The blade exited directly through his heart. His eyes bulged; he gave a spluttering cough; and then blood poured from his mouth to mingle with the fountain of his chest, and he hung his head and died. Grutas sat stunned, arms bound behind him; and then he began to scream and struggle, hysterically. Hannibal dropped Kolnas’ corpse and crossed the room swiftly, to grab him by the hair; he pulled his head back to bare his throat.

‘There is no one here to hear you, my friend,’ he remarked, and nodded to Will.

Will took a deep breath. Blood continued to pour from Kolnas’ wound, pooling on the floor; Grutas stared at it, babbling desperately in a language Will did not understand. 

‘You,’ Hannibal addressed him. ‘It was you who decided that my Mischa should no longer live. I heard you give the order: I hear it still, every night in my dreams; as I hear my sister’s screams. I have been waiting so long to make _ you _scream for what you did.’

Hannibal handed Will the knife. Grutas’ eyes fixed upon it, glinting in Will’s hand, and he began to weep. 

‘When you are ready,’ Hannibal said, tenderly.

Will locked his eyes upon his lover’s; and with a steady hand, slit Grutas’ throat. 

Blood fountained from the cut, spraying them both: Will closed his eyes against it, feeling its touch like warm rain. Grutas slumped forward in his chair, his head sagging grotesquely on its few remaining tendons.

Will looked at Hannibal. Where Will’s chest rose and fell raggedly, his pulse quickened with excitement, Hannibal was perfectly calm, his breathing even; but his eyes were alight with triumph, and pride. He lay down his knife and opened his arms to Will. ‘Come here.’

Will went gladly. He pressed his blood-spattered face into Hannibal’s shoulder and welcomed the arms that wrapped tightly around him. ‘Your first?’ asked Hannibal.

‘Yes,’ said Will.

Hannibal kissed his hair. ‘You did wonderfully.’

‘I would do it again, if you bid me.’ Will raised his head. ‘I did not know it would be so beautiful.’

Hannibal’s face took on the gentlest aspect Will had yet seen. Taking Will’s face in both his bloodied hands, he kissed him deep and sweet, licking the murdered man’s lifeblood from his lips. ‘However did I find you?’ he murmured. ‘What god brought you to me?’

Will returned the kiss with ardour, fisting his hands in Hannibal’s hair. Their embrace turned fevered and vicious, as they bit and sucked at bloodied lips and grasped at backs and buttocks; and finally Hannibal knelt to the ground, and pulled Will down beside him. They wrestled to the floor: Will lay back in the pool of blood, and demanded of Hannibal, ‘Take me.’

Hannibal growled, low in his throat, like the predator Will now knew he was. In one swift motion he tore Will’s shirtfront open, and sank his teeth into his bare chest, drawing blood. Will cried out. Swiftly Hannibal dispatched Will of his trousers, and then himself of his own; and they were both naked, their arousal laid bare. ‘Now you are truly mine,’ murmured Hannibal, and thrust into Will.

Will let the gathering blood soak his hair as Hannibal fucked him, smelling the copper tang of it, mixed with their own animal musk. His lips were bloodied by their kiss; he tasted it, and it thrilled him. He cried Hannibal’s name, again and again, when he came. His spend and Hannibal’s mingled, and trickled down the insides of his thighs, to join the crimson pool on the floor. 

Hannibal lay down atop him, when they both had climaxed; and Will closed his eyes under his weight: pinned, imprisoned; forever joined by deeds and by blood. He put his arms around Hannibal’s neck, leaving a swipe of blood on his back. ‘It is done,’ he said softly. ‘She is avenged.’

Hannibal kissed him. ‘Yes; and my life’s work is accomplished. Finally, I am free.’

‘Do you mean, you will stop? You will no longer kill for sport?’

‘Of course I will. I cannot change my nature.’ He looked into Will’s eyes. ‘But now I have you, as my helpmeet. Things will be easier _ à deux.’ _

‘Yes,’ breathed Will. ‘We will be—beautiful.’

‘Together,’ said Hannibal. 

‘Together.’

* * *

The next night Will helped Hannibal to prepare their supper. The butchering did not cause him so much revulsion, as he may have expected; indeed, he was fascinated, by the way human joints and ligaments came apart beneath his knife. He gutted Kolnas and Hannibal Grutas. The air smelt rank; effluvia flowed freely; but they worked side-by-side, and took the men apart with their bare hands. 

Hannibal cooked. ‘We must honour every part of them, so that their sacrifice was not in vain,’ he explained to Will. He sent him to fetch a good wine from the cellar; a favourite vintage, ‘for tonight is special.’ Will himself mixed the fresh blood in, and could not stop himself from tasting it, sharp like iron on his tongue. 

They sat at table before their kills, now steaming on a platter. Hannibal said a prayer in his native tongue, and then served Will the first tender cut of meat. He tasted it, and closed his eyes, letting this flesh that he had killed dissolve on his tongue. ‘He is part of you now,’ said Hannibal, who watched him.

‘As I am part of you,’ answered Will. 

‘I have asked, and taken, so much of you already,’ said Hannibal. ‘I must now ask something more.’

‘I would give you anything.’

‘Soft, Will; I do not ask this lightly.’

‘Speak, then; and let me judge it for myself.’

Hannibal lifted Will’s hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘To Firenze.’

‘What—leave my own life behind?’ Will’s heart thumped in his chest.

‘I told you; it was no simple question.’

‘My answer, though, could not be simpler.’ Will took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I will come with you.’

Hannibal’s brows rose sharply. ‘You are so certain? But what of your practice; and your betrothed?’

Will pressed Hannibal’s hand, and looked deep into his eyes. ‘They matter nothing more to me. You, Hannibal; _ you _are my life now; I belong only to you.’

‘I will ask things of you, which before last night you would not have done,’ Hannibal warned him. ‘I will ask them often.’

‘I am a new man because of last night. I am a new man because of you. I will obey you without question.’ Each word rang clear and true: a bell which tolled the death of Will’s old self.

Hannibal looked at him with glowing warmth in his dark eyes. In the candlelight, they looked almost red: the colour of old blood. ‘Let it then be so.’ He leaned to Will, and kissed him, and together they tasted death; and in it, a new life.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as ever, to darling [Gefionne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne) for reading this first, making me wheeze with her Google Docs comments, and letting me force her to listen to [Maneater](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLolag3YSYU) by Nelly Furtado. Thank you also to [Redcap64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcap64/pseuds/Redcap64) for reading _Jane Eyre_ with me and offering hilarious insights into Hannibal's motivations. Thank you to [b33x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/b33x/pseuds/armoredsuperheavy) for suggesting hair colours for Hannibal: Greying brown? Brindle?? Tawny??? We just don't know.
> 
> And last but not least, thank you to my girlfriend [bluebacchus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus) for supporting me in my descent into Cannibal Hell™ and confirming my suspicions that this fic does, in fact, qualify as camp. I would never lure any of you to my Eastern European castle under false pretences and then seduce you and drink your blood. Probably. ❤️


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